


Backyard Goats, and Other Suspicious Signs of Wizardry

by octoberburns



Series: Practical Advice for the Modern Magic User [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Neighbourhood Miscreants, POV Child, Slice of Life, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberburns/pseuds/octoberburns
Summary: Someone new has moved into the neighbourhood.Libby's little brother Jack is convinced Mr. Blackwood is a wizard. Libby is a little bit more sensible about these things. Still, the rumours are getting a bit out of hand—and someone has to get to the bottom of this.





	Backyard Goats, and Other Suspicious Signs of Wizardry

**Author's Note:**

> _Not_ my request story for this past month—that one's still incoming. This is a surprise bonus offering that's been sitting in my files, unfinished, for five literal years. Recently I tidied it up and was struck by inspiration, and, three thousand words later, here we are. Enjoy!

“I’m telling you, he’s a wizard,” Jack insisted.

Libby heaved a sigh and stopped digging, sitting back on her knees to peg her brother with an irritable squint. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “He’s just a weird old man.”

“He’s a _wizard_,” Jack repeated. He climbed down from the swing set and crouched beside the garden plot where Libby was unearthing potatoes, poking interestedly at the dirt. “He has a stick and everything.”

Libby swatted his hands away and went back to digging. “Lots of people have sticks,” she said. “He’s _old_. Maybe he needs a stick to walk. And besides, Mom says a wizard would never move into this neighbourhood. It’s not _prestigious_ enough,” she added, with a touch of smugness. She had learned that word from the start-of-year sixth grade spelling assessment last month and was still pleased with herself every time she found the chance to use it in a sentence.

“That’s not true,” Jack said. “Wizards like cottages and herb gardens and stuff.”

Libby rolled her eyes with weary patience. “No, that’s witches. It’s not the same _thing_, Jack, Harry Potter is a made up story. Wizards study at university. They like private libraries and fancy parties and—and manor houses, not weird suburbs with too many plants.”

But Jack was undeterred, even when she blocked him from excavating a potato with his bare hands. “He has a library!”

She stopped again. “Jack Fitzpatrick! Have you been spying on him?”

“No!” he said immediately. Libby stared him down until his shoulders sagged. “I maybe looked in his windows. But it was only once!”

“Well, don’t do it again,” she said. “What do you think he’ll do if he is a wizard and he catches you?”

Jack looked stricken. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Of course you didn’t. That’s why it’s a good thing you’ve got me around. Now go away, I’m supposed to finish digging out these potatoes before Mom needs them for dinner.”

Jack pouted, but did as he was told. Libby watched after him as he walked into the house, leaving a grimy handprint behind on the screen door. She sighed. “Brothers.”

The man Jack was convinced was a wizard had moved into the house on the overgrown corner lot down the street just two weeks ago. It had had a “for sale” sign on it for months until suddenly one day a man with silver hair in a long braid had driven up in a rental truck with some friends. They had unloaded his furniture in record time, and the next day he had come around to introduce himself to the curious neighbours. His name was Clancy Benjamin Blackwood, and with a name like that Libby could privately see why Jack thought he was a wizard.

But that was the thing about reality, she thought sensibly—just because someone had a storybook name didn’t mean they were actually out of a story. Jack was still a bit too young to have learned that. When he’d had a chance to see that Mr. Blackwood did nothing more exciting than weed his new garden and occasionally bake pies, he’d get over it.

At least, that was what she thought until she went over to Alice Li’s house the next weekend and discovered her, her sister Sophie, and half the neighbourhood kids holding a furtive huddled conference in the tree fort in their backyard. They all stopped talking as soon as she was head and shoulders above the ladder. In the midst of the group she caught sight of Jack’s distinctive freckled head.

“Are you talking about the wizard again?” she asked in dismay.

Alice’s face cleared immediately. “Good, you know already. Come up here and help us figure this out.”

Resigned to fate, Libby crawled up into the fort and took a seat on the cushion in the corner. She made sure to shoot Jack a glare from across the assembly.

For an eight-year-old, he did a remarkable job of pretending not to notice. He had a stack of papers spread out in front of him, covered in rambling notes and inexpert but effective sketches. Libby tilted her head to get a good look at them. There was a bookshelf with a candlestick and some sort of animal skull on it, a walking stick detailed with carvings and a crystal, and, absurdly, what appeared to be a goat. She groaned.

“Jack, I told you to stop spying on him,” she said.

“We have to know, Libby!” he said. His eyes were wide and entirely earnest; apparently he was actually that serious about figuring out whether Mr. Blackwood was a wizard. Libby groaned again and dropped her face into her knees.

The conversation picked up where it had, presumably, left off. “Is it actually a real goat in his backyard?” asked Kristen Chen.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Only it’s not full grown. Or maybe it is, but it’s a small one. It eats the weeds he pulls up and lives in the shed.”

“What about the stick?” said Michael Lavoie impatiently. “Have you ever seen him do magic with it?”

But Jack just shook his head. “Mostly he uses it to walk. But it’s as tall as he is and it has a handhold carved into it and everything. It looks _just_ like a wizard’s staff!”

“But it’s not magic.”

“It could be!” Jack insisted.

“Yeah, just because we haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it isn’t,” put in Julia Reyes. “Wizards are secretive, everyone knows that. And besides, he’s got the goat and the library and the weird old house with the messy yard and the red velvet suit and the cloak. And he wears a _snake_ around his shoulders!” she said triumphantly. “My dad saw it.”

“And he’s always awake at night,” added Sophie. “I can see his house out my window. There are always lights on.”

Libby had to admit that it did paint a compelling picture, whether it was true or not. It certainly seemed to have fired up the neighbourhood’s imagination: if Julia was to be believed, even her parents thought the theory had its merits. Libby listened without comment as the conversation turned from evidence of Mr. Blackwood’s proposed occupation to ways to confirm it for certain, and the longer it went on the more positive she was that they had overlooked something very simple.

“Couldn’t we just ask him if he’s a wizard?” she interrupted. The tree fort immediately went silent. “What?” she said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Michael said. “We can’t just _ask_ him.”

“Why not?”

He scoffed. “You know what wizards are like.”

Libby wanted to point out that actually, she didn’t, since she’d never spoken to a wizard before, and more to the point, neither had any of them. But instead she stood up, dusting off her jeans. “Fine. You sit here and argue about it. I’m going to go ask.” And before they could stop her she had started down the ladder.

Sure enough, by the time she had reached the edge of the Li family’s lawn, the rest of them had tumbled down in pursuit. Ignoring their entreaties and empty threats, she trotted off down the street towards the corner lot; despite all their protests, none of her friends seemed inclined to actually do anything to stop her, and she opened Mr. Blackwood’s gate unimpeded. Jack, Alice, Sophie, Julia, Michael, and Kristen didn’t follow, lingering outside the fence.

The covered porch was a welcome respite from the brisk autumn wind. Michael’s older brother had seen Mr. Blackwood installing a painted mailbox just last week; now that Libby was closer, she could see that it said _Landwood House_. The doorbell had a melodious chime when she pressed it, nothing like the atonal buzzer that every other house on the block shared. Soon she heard light footsteps in the hallway, and then the door swung open to reveal a man with bright silver hair, a weathered face, and a black and yellow ball python curled around one arm.

“Hello,” he said, taking in the stubborn expression on Libby’s face and the other hovering children with one sweep of his hazel eyes. “May I help you?”

“Yes—I’m Libby Fitzpatrick, I live down the street?” she said.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Blackwood, nodding. “I met your parents not long ago. Your mother has a lovely garden. What can I do for you, Libby Fitzpatrick?”

”Well—we were wondering, Mr. Blackwood,” she began. She glanced back at her friends. Most of them were trying not to get caught staring, but Jack was watching her with an intent look. “Um,” she said. “Could you please tell us—are you a wizard?”

Mr. Blackwood’s eyebrows began to rise, and then a moment later so did the corners of his mouth. “An interesting question, Miss Fitzpatrick. I’ll tell you what,” he said, “why don’t you and your brother and all of your friends come in and have tea with me, and you can decide for yourselves?”

“Oh—thank you,” Libby said. It wasn’t exactly the answer she’d been hoping for, but Mr. Blackwood was already swinging the front door wide and making his way back into the house, so she started after him. For a moment, there was silence from the yard, and then there was a scuffle and a scramble at the gate as everyone else followed.

Jack caught up with her as she was carefully removing her shoes. “He knew I was your brother!” he whispered excitedly. “He _must_ be a wizard, that proves it!”

Libby prodded him in the back of the head. “Everyone in the universe knows you’re my brother,” she muttered back. “You look like a miniature clone of me.”

“Do not!”

“Do too.”

Their impending argument was cut short by their arrival in Mr. Blackwood’s kitchen. It was clean and airy, with brightly pattered wallpaper and lace curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. Mr. Blackwood had already put the kettle on, and was collecting mismatched china cups and floral saucers from one of his cupboards.

“Would one of you please be so kind as to retrieve the cream?” he said, nodding in the direction of the fridge. Julia hastened to obey. Mr. Blackwood smiled brightly at her and added a tin of shortbread to the tray, along with a blue and green sugar bowl and a handful of teaspoons. “There,” he said. “Now as soon as the water boils, we may make our way to the sitting room.”

“Clancy?” said a voice from the hallway. A short-haired figure appeared on the staircase, resplendent in blue satin pyjamas and a housecoat patterned with giraffe print. “Who is it?”

“Just some of the neighbours,” Mr. Blackwood called back. “We’re going to have tea in the sitting room. Feel free to join us when you’re more conscious.”

“Hmph,” said the figure on the stairs, before vanishing back into the shadows of the second floor.

Libby and Jack glanced at each other. Around them they could see their friends doing the same. No one had mentioned anything about a second person living in the wizard’s house.

“Who was that?” asked Kristen in a hushed voice.

Mr. Blackwood snorted good-naturedly. “That was Dr. Kenna Landvik, and you are to pay them no mind,” he said. “They are not overly fond of young people. Or mornings. Or tea.”

Landvik and Blackwood, Libby realized. The writing on their mailbox was a combination of both their names.

“We didn’t know anyone else even lived here,” said Michael.

“Well, no,” said Mr. Blackwood. The kettle began to whistle, and he turned off the stove, pouring the water into a teapot decorated with elaborately inked mushrooms. “I expect Kenna will meet the neighbourhood on their own time. They’re not overly fond of socializing, either.” He picked up the tray, being careful not to jostle the snake on his arm, and turned towards the door.

“Are you married?” asked Jack eagerly as they followed their host into the sitting room. Libby shot him a scolding look, but Mr. Blackwood only laughed.

“No, we are not married,” he said, setting the tray down on a carved oak coffee table. “And nor are we engaged, dating, or in fact any sort of couple at all. But we are very old friends, and neither of us likes to live alone.”

Mr. Blackwood settled in the middle of an old-fashioned couch, with Jack and Sophie on either side of him. For the next couple minutes he was occupied with pouring them all tea and fixing it to their preferences, so Libby took the opportunity to look around his sitting room.

It wasn’t exactly a library, though she could see why Jack had called it one. There were a lot of books. But the mismatched shelves held other things, too. One of them was host to the candlestick and animal skull of Jack’s drawing—she thought it was maybe some kind of dog—along with a number of other smaller bones. There was also a whole shelf of board games—and they didn’t have any of the names Libby recognized from the games at her grandma’s house. A figurine of a reclining bear sat in front of a row of two dozen books all by the same author; on another shelf was a hand-sized model of a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil. One shelf was given over to a display of seashells, gemstones, fossils, sea glass, and particularly interesting rocks; another appeared to be a small shrine, complete with the remnants of a stick of incense.

The rest of the room was just as intriguing as the shelves. The furniture all looked old, but it wasn’t stuffy—just comfortably worn in. The floor was covered by a huge patterned rug, the edges of which disappeared under various furnishings. There were framed pictures all over the walls—fantastical paintings and storybook illustrations and postcards that looked like book covers and embroidered landscapes and strange animals and ink skeletons and faraway cities and signed sketches and what looked like a tourism poster for Mars. There was a large TV tucked against the wall, which didn’t surprise her, and a couple of old game consoles, which did. There were plenty of chairs for everyone, and interesting woven blankets and throw pillows on all of them. Her mom would have clucked her tongue and called it “too busy,” and her dad would have said it must be a nuisance to keep clean, but Libby found she liked it.

“Miss Fitzpatrick?” said Mr. Blackwood, drawing her attention back to him. “How would you like your tea?”

Libby considered. “What is it?”

“Black tea, Moroccan mint, and cornflower.”

That sounded interesting. “Just one spoon of sugar, please.”

Mr. Blackwood complied, putting a piece of shortbread on the saucer next to her teacup before he passed it over. Libby stirred her tea while he poured a cup for himself—no cream or sugar at all—then took an experimental sip.

It was good. She settled happily back into her chair.

“Now then,” said Mr. Blackwood, after taking a slow sip of tea himself. “I’m sure you must have questions.”

“What’s _that?_” Jack said immediately, pointing across the room at the skull on the bookcase. Libby bristled.

“Don’t _point_, Jack!”

“It’s quite alright,” Mr. Blackwood assured her. “That, Mr. Fitzpatrick, is a skull I found in the woods last year. I’m not completely certain, but I believe it’s a fox.”

Strike one for him being a wizard, Libby thought: traipsing through the woods collecting bits of dead things was a hobby for witches.

There was a momentary pause. “Why do you have so many bones?” Alice asked.

“Because I like bones,” Mr. Blackwood said calmly. “Besides, it does one good to be reminded of one’s own mortality occasionally.”

The rest of her friends looked as dubious about that as Libby felt, but she put it aside. Old people said stuff like that sometimes. “Which one’s your favourite?”

Mr. Blackwood smiled, stroking the snake that still sat coiled around his arm with the opposite thumb. “I have a brown bear skull in my office upstairs. Very expensive, but entirely worth it.”

“Wow,” said Sophie.

“What are all these books?” Michael asked, waving his hand around the room and almost upsetting his tea in the process. “Are they magic?”

“They are novels,” said Mr. Blackwood. “Fantasy and science fiction, mostly. Some of them are Kenna’s, but most of them are mine. I read quite a lot. That shelf over there,” he added, nodding towards the heavy wooden bookcase next to the window, “is for classic literature and nonfiction. I studied English literature at university.”

That didn’t seem especially wizardly either, Libby thought.

“Is it true you have a goat?” Kristen burst out. She had obviously been dying to ask.

“It is not,” said Mr. Blackwood. “It is true that _Kenna_ has a goat. Her name is Archimedes, and she’s very helpful in the garden.”

“Why is she so small?” Julia said. Libby winced. If anything would make it obvious they’d been spying on him…

But Mr. Blackwood betrayed no offense, or even surprise. “She’s a pigmy goat,” he said. “She’s supposed to be small. That was my condition to Kenna when they got her—she had to be small enough to live in our backyard.”

“Can we see her?” Kristen asked eagerly.

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Blackwood said. Adults said that a lot, but he sounded genuinely regretful. “She gets excitable around large groups—and besides, she is Kenna’s. If you come back another day in the afternoon, in smaller numbers, I’m sure they could be persuaded to introduce you.”

Kristen seemed disappointed, but sat back, apparently satisfied with the fairness of that offer.

“What’s your stick for?” Sophie piped up.

“To help me on long walks,” said Mr. Blackwood. “And sometimes to reach things. You may have noticed that I’m not especially tall.”

Libby stifled a giggle.

But Michael was mulish. “Why does it look like a wizard’s stick, then?”

Mr. Blackwood considered him for a long moment, then set his tea down on his saucer. If Libby didn’t know better, she might have described the look in his eye as ‘mischievous.’

“Can I tell you a secret?” he said.

“Okay…,” Michael replied hesitantly.

Mr. Blackwood lowered his voice. “It makes me feel fancy.”

There was a pause, and then the room erupted in laughter.

And that was how it went for the rest of the morning. Libby mostly listened, sipping her tea and nibbling her shortbread while her brother and her friends plied Mr. Blackwood with questions. He had met Dr. Landvik as a student, and they had known each other for over fifty years. Half the garden was going to be Kenna’s: they wanted to grow tomatoes and cooking herbs, and he wanted wildflowers and rosebushes. The rock collection was also Kenna’s; Mr. Blackwood preferred bones and books. His snake was named Evangeline, and she was friendly; he happily surrendered her to Sophie when she asked to hold her. He worked as a part-time professor at the university downtown—“they’ve gently suggested I retire, actually, but they can’t make me”—teaching evening seminars in creative writing and Renaissance poetry. Dr. Landvik had done their doctorate in linguistics, and knew, “oh, bits and pieces, at least, of around two dozen languages.” They both spoke French, to Michael and Julia’s delight, and Mr. Blackwood also knew some Italian, Arabic, Latin, Korean, and, for some reason, Basque, which he told them had no known linguistic relations. His favourite kind of pie was blackberry, but what he best liked to bake was salted caramel cheesecake. The shortbread they were eating was also his own creation.

All in all, Libby thought, it presented a picture of an elderly man with a fascinating life, but who didn’t seem especially magical in any way. She could see Jack and the others drawing the same conclusion over the course of their tea, but luckily Mr. Blackwood was so interesting that none of them seemed to mind. When their teacups had been sitting empty for half an hour Libby suggested that they might leave him to his day, and everyone complied without any disagreeableness. He allowed Sophie to drape Evangeline around his shoulders, collected up their tea things onto the tray, and shook hands very seriously with Jack.

“I think maybe you’re not a wizard after all,” Jack said. “But that’s alright, because I think you might be the coolest grown-up I’ve ever talked to.”

“I’m pleased you think so,” Mr. Blackwood said solemnly, and bid them all a friendly goodbye, with instruction to come back whenever they pleased.

“There, see?” Libby said as she closed the gate to Landwood House behind them. “You can just ask. That was neat, right?”

“He’s so cool,” Kristen said fervently. “I’m going to come back tomorrow to ask about the goat.”

“It was okay,” Michael said. “He ended up not being a wizard, so it was fine. Who knows how it would have gone if he was?”

Alice and Kristen started bickering with Michael, but Libby ignored them, falling in next to Jack. He looked deep in thought. “You’re not too disappointed, are you?” she said, suddenly anxious. “I’m sorry you were wrong.”

But Jack was beaming when he looked up at her. “Do you think we could find some bones down at the creek?”

That took care of their plans for the afternoon. They convened after lunch in Jack and Libby’s backyard and trooped off through the scrub trees that faced onto the creek. They didn’t find any bones there that day, but they did find several snail shells, some interesting rocks, a tuft of rabbit fur, a disheartening amount of garbage (they collected it in an empty dog poop bag Alice found in her pocket), and quite a lot of fallen leaves. It was only when they were on their way home for dinner that Libby realized Jack’s jacket was missing.

“You didn’t leave it at the house for lunch, did you?” she said.

Jack shook his head. “It must be at Mr. Blackwood’s. I’ll go get it.”

Libby took one look at his muddy hands and dirt-smeared t-shirt. “_I’ll_ go get it. You go home and put your shirt in the laundry before dinner or Mom’s going to kill you.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Thanks, Libby,” he said, and took off down the street towards their place. With a fond sigh, Libby turned in the other direction and trudged off to Landwood House.

The person who answered the door this time was the short-haired figure she had seen on the stairs. “Hello,” they said, their voice just the neutral side of confused. Up close, Libby could see they were taller than Mr. Blackwood, and what they lacked in his offbeat sense of style they made up for in their enthusiasm for green trousers and shirts printed with patterns of strange fish. She blinked up owlishly at them for a moment before she remembered her manners.

“Hello, Dr. Landvik,” she said. “I’m Libby Fitzpatrick, I was here this morning. I think my brother left his jacket?”

“Oh, yes, I did wonder,” they said. “Come in for a moment, Clancy put it somewhere.”

“Thank you,” Libby said, stepping into the entrance and closing the door behind her. Inside she could hear the sounds of sizzling and singing coming from the kitchen.

“Clancy,” called Dr. Landvik as they made their way down the hall. “One of your neighbourhood miscreants is here to retrieve a coat.”

“Oh! Perfect,” she heard Mr. Blackwood say. He came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on his trousers, and spotted her. “Libby! Of course. It’s Jack’s, I take it? I hung it up in the closet.”

“Thank you,” Libby said again as Mr. Blackwood retrieved the jacket. She couldn’t figure out how to say anything else. His sleeves were rolled up, and her eyes were glued to his forearms—where an elaborate tracery of lines was tattooed from his wrists to his elbows in a shifting blend of blue, red, and black ink.

“Those are spell circles,” she said dumbly.

Mr. Blackwood glanced down at his arms, then at her, and then he _winked_.

“But—you said you teach creative writing!” Libby found herself saying accusingly. “And, and Renaissance poetry!”

“I do,” Mr. Blackwood said. “A surprising number of writers both historical and modern are wizards, you know.”

“You do witch stuff!”

“I _am_ allowed to have hobbies,” Mr. Blackwood said reasonably. “And besides, the magical disciplines are much more closely related than we’d like to think. We have much to gain from studying each others’ methods.”

“You let us all think you’re—” she cast around for a word; “normal” certainly wasn’t it— “an ordinary person!”

“I let you draw your own conclusions,” he said, still smiling. “People have a lot of ideas about what wizardy is. Some of them are even correct, but many rely on stereotypes. We have found our lives are easier when we remain ambiguous on the subject of rumour.”

Libby caught her breath. “Dr. Landvik is a wizard, too?”

Mr. Blackwood nodded. “A knowledge of linguistics is very helpful in deciphering ancient spell circles.”

Libby chewed on her lip, considering. Now that the shock was fading, she was beginning to see the sense of what Mr. Blackwood had done. He wasn’t lying to them, exactly, but she couldn’t imagine people would ever leave him alone if they knew for sure that he was a wizard either. And it wasn’t just his life he was thinking of: it was his friend’s, too, and Dr. Landvik didn’t seem to like dealing with people very much. Even people who didn’t want anything from them—or want to accuse them of anything, she thought, remembering the books she had read where people blamed wizards and witches for all kinds of bad luck—would still be endlessly curious about it: Jack was proof enough of that. Letting a bunch of kids think that there wasn’t anything magical about them—letting them tell the neighbourhood what they had learned—had to be the easiest way to get everyone to calm down about the whole thing and let them just be everyone’s slightly weird neighbours.

“I bet people treat you different if they know you can do magic, right?” she said finally.

The smile he gave her at that let her know she had guessed correctly. “There’s a reason most wizards have a social circle composed only of other wizards,” he said. “And, if they’re lucky, the occasional witch, sorcerer, and alchemist as well.”

Libby nodded slowly. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

Mr. Blackwood winked again, handing her Jack’s jacket. “Our little secret,” he said. “And besides, isn’t it fun to confuse people a little sometimes?”

She laughed a bit giddily. “Yeah, it is.”

She, Libby Fitzpatrick, had a secret she shared with a wizard!

Something occurred to her then. “Mr. Blackwood?” she said, nodding to his arms. “If you want to keep it secret, why do you have those?”

Mr. Blackwood lifted his arms, turning them to admire the lines of the tattoos. “My master’s thesis project,” he explained. “My Master of Wizardry, not my Master of English. It makes it harder to keep quiet, but I’ve found the knowledge was worthwhile. Magical tattoos are highly experimental even now, let alone forty years ago.” He laughed. “I’m half convinced they’re only letting me teach without a doctorate because they’re afraid of what I’d do for a PhD.”

“What do they do?” Libby said.

But instead of answering, Mr. Blackwood said, “How about you come back next weekend, and I can teach you about it?”

Libby blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve got discretion, good sense, and an analytical mind. I think you might make a fine wizard if you wanted to be, Miss Libby Fitzpatrick.”

Libby’s mind went blank, and she found she had no idea what to say. “I—I’m—”

“Oh, don’t decide now,” Mr. Blackwood said, waving her off. “If I’m not mistaken, you ought to get home to dinner, and I need to go back to the kitchen so I don’t burn ours. I will see you next weekend, or I won’t, and that will be answer enough.”

“Oh. Right. Okay,” Libby said, reminded that she had spent long minutes in the Landwood House entryway and her parents would no doubt be wondering where she was. “Thank you for the jacket, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling. “Now, off you go.”

Libby wasn’t going to tell, of course, but she had the feeling the secret would get out eventually—at least in rumour. Hopefully by that point Mr. Blackwood and Dr. Landvik would be well enough established in the neighbourhood that people wouldn’t make a big fuss. But one way or another, she reflected, as Mr. Blackwood closed the front door behind her—Jack was absolutely going to kill her.

Libby laughed to herself, and raced off down the street towards home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/october_burns). I have a [blog](http://octoberburns.wordpress.com). Come chat writing and book recs with me! And if you like my stories, I'd love it if you'd help support my work.


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